


Leave Your Troubles At The Door

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: community: qaf_giftxchnge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-28
Updated: 2007-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He nips at the shell of Brian's ear; grins when Brian can't suppress the responsive shudder.  "Please?" he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Your Troubles At The Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaipixie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=zaipixie).



> Post Season Five  
> Written for an LJ summer gift exchange. Request: Toppy-Justin PWP.

The room is burnished white walls and high ceilings; a bank of tall narrow windows that bathe the space in sunlight. Justin has been leasing it for seven weeks, or two full and complete rental payments, and he still has heart palpitations and feels slightly queasy when he sees the amount of the monthly debit on his bank statement.

Still, he's smiling as he leads Brian down the hallway and pushes open the door. He slips out of his shoes and brushes his fingers over the twist of metal hanging on the wall in the tiny foyer. He hums a little under his breath as he moves toward the air conditioner, blessed cool air and thank God and wealthy Manhattan socialites he can finally afford air conditioning, and is halfway there before he realizes that Brian is still standing in the open doorway.

"What?"

Brian grimaces in the general direction of the entwined metal object suspended just above the intercom. "What the fuck is that?"

"Well," Justin says. Exactly what the item is, or does, or supposedly does, is somewhat difficult to describe. Especially to someone like Brian. He decides to hedge. "I didn't make it."

Brian huffs out a breath. "Of course not. It's hideous."

Justin laughs. "I got it from a woman in one of my workshops. It's a problem… depository… thing."

"There you go again, showing off that 750 verbal," Brian drawls.

"The idea is that you touch it when you arrive," Justin says evenly, "and it absorbs all your troubles and leaves them at the doorstep, resulting in a balanced and stress-free living space."

"You've been spending waaay too much time on the phone with the professor."

Justin doesn't mention that he had, in fact, referred to the metallic problem-catcher to Ben via email only a week prior, nor that Ben had asked if he could convince Lydia to make one for him and Michael. He thinks it prudent also not to bring up Emmett's enthusiastic feng shui ideas for the studio. He just crosses his arms. "Well?"

Brian leers. "I'd rather rub something else."

Justin raises an eyebrow.

They lock eyes for a moment… and then Brian strokes the pad of his thumb once over the talisman.

Justin smirks. "Coming in?"

"Hmm."

"Close the door."

* * *

"Nice," Brian says.

Justin's not sure why he's been nervous. He's been in the city for a year and a half (okay, 18 months, 9 days and assorted hours) and he's already got a reputation as one of the most innovative up and coming artists of the decade.

"It's not finished," he says.

It's not like Justin needs Brian's approval. He hasn't, not since he was seventeen and drawing Brian's cock endlessly in his sketchbooks, daydreaming during math class about how to finagle his way back to Brian's place after a night at Babylon. If he needed Brian's approval on his work, there's a whole series of anti-Stockwell posters that never would have seen the light of day. Justin knows this.

"Yes," Brian says, catching his eye, "it is."

Justin smiles. Beams. Wants to laugh out loud. And loves the way that Brian's eyes crinkle when he smiles back.

Brian steps away from the canvas and spins slowly in a circle, taking in the simple lines of the room, the dark oak floors, the minimalist decor. "This place is… very me, actually." His eyes light on the daybed in the corner, and he winces. "Except for that. If you're that broke, all you have to do--"

"Shut up." Justin pats the pseudo-brass rail of the lounge affectionately. Sure, the bedding is just-short-of-fluorescent-yellow, and yes, the pillows are a bit frilly. But it was an amazing deal -- free -- and living in New York City is expensive (his recent mango addiction alone is depleting his bank account at a freakish pace) and his sense of personal style at the moment is basically 'cheap' and 'functional.' "It was Daphne's. She didn't need it, so I took it. Sometimes I stay late and crash instead of braving the last train."

"Uh huh."

Justin flops down on the bed. Blinks once, slowly.

"It's comfy," he says.

And then Brian is crossing the room, his muscle shirt already somewhere on the floor, and Justin's T-shirt quickly joins it. His fingers are at the fly of his cargoes and Brian's jeans are sliding past his hips, and Justin has a moment to consider that this is art too, the flow of colours and the flow of time, time stopping, the rush that makes his heartbeat falter and then stutter to life and everything suddenly look clearer and fresher and brighter than it did a moment ago.

Then Brian's mouth is on his, Brian's tongue pushing past his lips, Brian's body melding to his because their bodies never ever forget. And Justin can't believe they made it all the way up the stairs and into the room and stood around talking when they could have had this. On the first day of Brian's visits, Justin always agrees with Brian that conversation is highly overrated.

Their skin slides together, their heat and room heat because Justin never did make it to the battered air conditioner in the corner, and Justin slides down Brian's body, grazes his teeth at the sensitive skin of Brian's stomach, touches with hands and lips until Brian's head is thrown back and his mouth hangs open, slips and manoeuvres until Brian is prone beneath him, face first on the tiny single mattress.

Justin straddles his body, slick with sweat and heat and need, and waits.

"What do you think you're doing?" Brian asks quietly.

At last.

Justin presses against Brian's length, chest to back, tries to ignore the way they fit like this. The way they always fit. Because if he thinks about it too much he's a goner, he'll be begging for Brian's cock in his ass in three point five seconds, and he plans to do another sort of begging entirely.

He nips at the shell of Brian's ear; grins when Brian can't suppress the responsive shudder. "Please?" he says.

He knows his answer in the set of Brian's shoulders, in the soft puff of air from Brian's lips, in the relaxation of the muscles in Brian's thighs, long before Brian twists his head back to kiss him.

Justin rests his forehead against the sharp plane of Brian's shoulder blade and blinks; wonders that he's always surprised when he's known since the purchase of a country manor that Brian will deny him nothing.

In truth, he'd known long before that.

He cups his hands on Brian's ass, feels the muscles tense beneath his touch. Soothes and prepares, and it's not the fingers that do it, one, then a second, oh so careful. It's the open mouthed kisses on the small of Brian's back, the warm breath that still cools the heated flesh. It's the long delay of kisses and caresses and words murmured against sleek skin.

Then Brian spreads his legs, thrusts back and braces his knees and doesn't say a single word and Justin thinks he could come from that alone. His fingers scrabble among his scattered clothes for the condom -- the good ones, because 'cheap' and 'functional' might be okay for bullshit like clothing and housing, but things like condoms and weed are a completely different matter -- finds it and rips it open and skims it on. And when he finally slides carefully inside, when Brian's ass clenches around him and Brian lets out a low soft moan and pushes back, Justin closes his eyes and clutches Brian's hip and plunges deeper, lets Brian's body lead him where they both want to go. He feels like he's moving double-time, and at the same time feels like he's wading through the water of a swift flowing stream, pushing against the tide.

He thinks he will never get used to this feeling, the way it is with Brian. The way it always is with Brian. The way it never is with anyone else.

* * *

"I told you," Justin says.

The sweat is still cooling on their skin and Brian is rummaging around in his clothes for a smoke.

"Balanced and stress-free living space," Justin says.

The flick of a lighter and the scent of tobacco. Justin decides not to tell Brian that the studio is technically a smoke-free environment, and wonders when Brian switched to menthol.

His lips find that spot on the nape of Brian's neck that makes him squirm. "Practically zen-like," Justin says.

Brian twists around to watch Justin with amusement. "Are you done?"

"Not exactly."

Brian arches a brow. "Round two?"

Justin grins. "Thought you'd never ask."


End file.
